Word: gutted
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Like sopranos, unlike basses and baritones, tenor voices go to seed early. When golden-voiced Enrico Caruso died at 48, he had passed his prime. Jean de Reszke and gut-busting Francesco Tamagno retired at 51. But not yet retired is Giovanni Martinelli, 53, robust, white-mopped tenor who made his debut at Manhattan's Metropolitan Opera the year before the War. Never the undisputed best of the Metropolitan's chandelier-jigglers, Martinelli has been a dependable artist in an enormous repertory (57 roles). In two operas, Verdi's Otello and Halevy's La Juive, critics...
...pastel tint, they lay, deepening the bollows to a hunter emerald. So she made garden throughout the morning, busy with tulip and dahlia tubers, hollybook plants to draw the bees, and the bitter tansy. The grocery boy came by with news of a herring run down at the Gut. He sniffed. "Seems like it's spring, I guess." "Ayea," game her noncommittal assent from, the kitchen door...
...Nova Scotia coast. To Seaman Fred Bourque, on the bow watch, the fog seemed to thicken as dawn came. Suddenly, 20 feet dead ahead, a great silhouette showed. Fred Bourque shouted a warning to Billy Oilman at the wheel, ran aft. In less time than it takes to gut a cod the Isabelle Parker had piled halfway through the Gloucesterman Edith C. Rose, southbound with her hold stuffed with catch from Brown's Bank. The watch below came tumbling up in undershirts. They saw that it was over for both ships...
Parent of all the racquet games is court tennis, which Nausicaa and her maidens reputedly played by batting a ball with their hands. For the last 700 years it has been played with a lopsided, gut-strung racquet that looks as if it might have been left out in the rain. Once the game was a pastime of the European masses, but like other mass delights, it has become much too good for them. Since the 15th Century every British and French king worth mentioning has played it, moving one of its chroniclers to write: "It is the characteristic game...
Then the serpent enters the Garden: the harvesting machine is invented, the rail-road arrives, sinister-looking capitalists in plug hats turn up. Years pass; the farmer prospers, the rascally capitalists wax fat, the nation's fibre is weakened. Then comes 1929: the gorged capitalists expire of a gut-ache, the farmer is ruined and goes back to plowing...